Enkrid's party headed south. Along the way, Odd-Eyes turned back. He really had only come out to see them off.
South—more exactly, toward the Demon Realm where a Balrog might be.
They didn't know the exact position of the one called the Demon of Strife. They were walking by rumor and hearsay. Even so, it wasn't as if there was no way to find him.
'Balrogs love to fight.'
They say he delights in fighting the strong and collects souls.
Then all they needed was to sing him a serenade of temptation from a place he might come to.
Enkrid's plan was to splash black blood around and belt out a serenade at the top of his lungs.
Surprisingly, Krais and Abnaier both nodded that it sounded plausible.
The name Balrog was veiled by legend, but in the process of investigating and confirming, they had grasped habits grounded in fact, so they judged it possible.
Call him out to fight, and he would come. Only—the song would have to be loud enough.
The Border Guard's safety road had grown so wide it was beyond comparison with before, so they had to pass several outposts.
"Ironclad!"
The salute came with a slogan. Ironclad, as in the Ironclad Knight. It was the last outpost marking the end of the safety road.
Enkrid gave a perfunctory wave and returned the salute as he passed.
Among the soldiers seeing the group off, the outpost commander—the sort with a head on his shoulders—tilted his head.
"Did we go to war or something?"
The senior soldier beside him shook his head.
"I haven't heard anything like that."
The commander hadn't either. Above all, there wasn't even an opponent to fight.
Of late, Enkrid's Mad Knight Order had even come to be called the "Labyrinth of the Marches."
If you asked how such a strange nickname had stuck—
'Because they called in everything and swallowed it whole.'
Right.
Eradication of cultists—they hadn't bothered to go after them; the cultists had come to them.
The apostate group that served the Gray God? Same story.
You might say the Black Knife bandits or Count Molsen, who sparked a civil war, were a little different, but whatever it was, the fact remained that the Mad Knight Order had chewed them up.
"Isn't the trade city supposed to be getting uppity lately?"
The commander was sensitive to rumors. He believed that knowing a lot was the way to survive long, and besides, there wasn't much as entertaining as gossip on the wind.
"Maybe they're going to burn the trade city?"
With a force like that, even a trade city with roots deep across the continent wouldn't be able to stand.
"They're not heading that way, though."
A junior soldier chimed in. To his eyes as well, it was simply strange to see them moving en masse.
Were they really going to war?
"Yeah—guess not."
Even the southern front had eased recently. He'd heard that provocations from that side had dropped off sharply.
There had been a lot of talk recently about some upheaval in the royal court—was it because of that?
'Going to go butcher nobles?'
As it happened, the gray-haired madman famously called the Noble-Slayer was among them.
'Probably not.'
He was getting ahead of himself. He didn't know the reason. Still, even if they weren't off to war, plenty would flinch just from seeing them massed and on the move.
The commander fixed the departing figures in his eyes. In particular, the black-haired man standing at the center.
If you went by the account of Captain Venzens of the garrison, that man had once been just a rank-and-file soldier—
'As if anyone could believe that.'
Naturally, that made the story's credibility drop like a stone.
The outpost stood high. Being high, it saw well.
Look at those who were leaving in the distance. The slanting sunlight rode down their backs and stretched out as shadow.
Now, simply by walking, they were a group that could cause tectonic shifts.
The commander's guess was right.
[* * *]
The trade city's mayor was on pins and needles watching the Mad Knight Order's movements.
Why were they suddenly setting out as a group?
'Are they putting on pressure?'
Telling them to stop acting up?
They'd made every excuse to avoid military confrontation until now—weren't these the sorts you couldn't cajole?
Could the trade city's pride, the Ten Mercenaries, stop them? Could they at least get words to pass? Enough for minimal negotiation?
Of course, victory wasn't even a dream. But could they at least show some backbone?
The mercenary captain happened to be present in the council meeting.
The mayor looked at him steadily. He didn't need to speak; eye contact was enough to canvass his mind.
The captain was a man with a long scar across his face, a veteran who'd done every kind of thing in his youth.
He had even been captured by the enemy and endured torture that tore out his fingernails and toenails. For not bowing to it, they had once called him the Indomitable Mercenary.
A symbol of endurance that didn't know quitting and held out to the end.
If you set aside the Mercenary King of the East, he was the spiritual pillar every mercenary boasted of.
"Surrender."
So said he.
"...What?"
"I said surrender. If you fight, everyone dies."
He was firm.
A mercenary who to all eyes was a symbol of defiance and indomitability—who would throw himself into a losing fight and hold out—spoke with unwavering stance.
Thump.
His hand struck the table, and it made his words seem to carry greater weight.
"Surrender!"
His shout was loud. That ended the meeting.
Backbone, what backbone.
The Mad Knight Order hadn't even come this way, and yet the sly merchants who had planned to throw up roadblocks on the so-called Stone Road and skim some profit—raised white flags first.
So great was the Madmen's renown.
Back at the Border Guard handling this and that, Krais cocked his head, wondering what scheme the trade city nursed to suddenly volunteer to set up a bank in the Border Guard and cooperate—only to put the pieces together before long.
'The Captain so much as moves and the world goes into an uproar.'
Leona Lockfreed was satisfied. She had had a pounding headache from the trade city's shady little tricks of late, and now that had been solved with a snap.
And that was only the first.
[* * *]
"We questioned qualification!"
The office of Pontiff was traditionally appointed in the Holy City of Legion. That was rule and custom.
The blessing of all High Prelates gathered here was the basic condition for electing the Pontiff to lead Legion. It wasn't a vote—it was a form that didn't end until everyone had agreed.
Meaning they could take years until they reached agreement.
The previous Pontiff had vanished without a trace, and as a result, Legion had taken a great wound. Recently, there had even appeared apostates who served the Gray God.
You could call it a time and situation of disorder.
Thus Legion needed extraordinary measures.
First among them was this:
"We must install a new Pontiff."
That.
At first they even said they would bring someone from the Empire who had awakened to divinity. Of course the Church's power was alive and well in the Empire. The Empire itself wasn't a nation where church and state were one, but it wasn't as if the Church's strength was paltry.
If sanctity truly existed, whoever could prove that power would naturally take a share of authority.
"I see no better way than this."
Holy Knight Overdier was certain the one who'd said that was an Imperial spy, but compared to apostasy and falling into cults, it wasn't a hanging offense.
In short, you didn't smash a man's skull just because he'd taken the Empire's side a bit.
"If one of the High Prelates steps up, we might go a hundred years without a result."
Even if he was a spy, the man who'd raised the point still lived for Legion and served God.
As for the ones who served the Gray God or were halfway to madness, most had already been sent to God's side.
The one suspected as an Imperial spy had, in any case, read the current state exactly.
A High Prelate's post existed to check and balance one another. In Legion they were "High Prelates," but in their own churches, each was a Pontiff in his own right.
So if one of them was to become the Pontiff of Legion—
'He would have to show something exceptional.'
He would have to display sanctity that could make a real saint look like a child.
He wasn't Pontiff, but one of the Apostles had been that strong—but he served the War God and wasn't part of Legion now.
Even if he had been, it would have been meaningless.
Those who served the War God had sworn before the Lord not to meddle in Legion's internal politics, so they weren't present here.
If not for that, they would have been a considerable help.
Overdier didn't untangle the knot. He had no intention of solving it. It wasn't his role, and he didn't have the capacity. Overdier was a Holy Knight.
The Church's sword and shield, not its tongue or prophet.
He still had something to say—but recommending a candidate for Pontiff was within bounds.
He had worked toward that as well.
"If the Goddess of Fortune gazes down with partiality, the Goddess of the Scales forever looks over the world by making balance."
Overdier's voice carried weight. No one dismissed him—not even the High Prelates.
He had already, some time ago, handled a traitor at the High Prelate level.
Some power-brokers in Legion cast uneasy looks. If Overdier chose, the Church's full authority could dance in his palm.
Such was the Holy Knight Order's prestige now. They had cut away the Church's rotten parts and held force.
Granted, there were Apostles of the War God observing from the sidelines, so it was in practice impossible for Overdier to seize Legion by force.
"The God of the Scales seems indifferent, yet is ever fair."
One of the High Prelates seconded Overdier's words.
Each church had its own pontiff, but the Pontiff of Legion was a different station entirely.
Put crudely, you could say he became the leader of the Holy City by receiving the recognition of every Pontiff.
Put more crudely still, you might even call him the King of Legion.
"The Scale's pan has come to this unworthy self. On behalf of all Holy Knights, I will recommend a candidate for Pontiff."
Overdier dipped his head and added words.
So he introduced Noah—and at that, one of the Cardinals under a High Prelate began to object, harping on qualification.
"Can a man who cannot even wield divinity possibly fit the office of Pontiff?"
To these relentless objections, Overdier first left his pledge of loyalty—and then brought out a card he'd prepared.
"We will bring the Ragged Saint."
Audin's foster father from the Border Guard stepped forward.
Tap, tap—leaning on his staff, the old man who feigned blindness bowed his head to Noah.
"The Lord above will do as He wills, but if He judges my will of any help, I lay my opinion bare."
He was a man who had once held Legion's pontifical seat. Of course, here, few knew it, and those who did chose not to say.
Still, a name doesn't lose its weight.
Even so, Audin's foster father had come here in the name of the Ragged Saint alone, so the weight behind his words wasn't all it could be.
Noah said nothing.
Persuading them by speech would be hard—but it was worth a try.
The problem was, even if he tried, would they reconcile and raise him by acclamation?
What was more, even now a question still sat inside Noah.
'Am I truly qualified?'
It had begun from wanting to care for children who had lost parents.
He hadn't wanted pickpockets and thieves—he'd wanted those children to serve God, to copy the scriptures, to live.
The wish had been small, the hope smaller still.
But could he truly take a charge like this?
"Two—only two? I grant the Holy Knight Order's renown, but who else supports him!"
One of the High Prelates cried sharply.
Overdier felt at a loss. Yes—he had expected it to go like this.
"The King of Nauwil lends his support."
No sooner had the official letter of support from Nauwil's king arrived than they still felt it was lacking—
—and then the news of the Mad Knight Order's advance set the continent abuzz.
Where, exactly, were they going? For what were they moving?
And then a problem arose. Checking their line of march, it was toward Legion.
"D—didn't you say you had ties to the Mad Knight Captain?"
Even asked in the middle of a meeting, Noah couldn't answer. The sudden news of Enkrid hit him with a small shock.
To be precise, you might call it a sudden realization.
The man had never said such a thing, and yet it felt as if he were being scolded.
Noah's pupils unfocused, and he was cursed out.
In the vision, Enkrid spoke to him gently and firmly.
"What idiot talk is that. Your wish is small? Your hope is small? Then let's hear what's greater than that."
It was hard to answer. Enkrid went on.
"There is no such thing as a small dream in this world, Noah."
Hopes had no size. It was a saying he had forgotten for a time.
"Do you have ties—or not?"
At the High Prelate's question, focus returned to Noah's eyes. Time to answer in the here and now.
"Friends."
At that, one of the High Prelates swallowed.
The Mad Knight Order's infamy was more resounding elsewhere than around the Border Guard. It was so now.
They had simply done too many big things.
"Going to war with Legion, are they."
The Ragged Saint muttered. He knew full well it wouldn't happen—but the words were enough to frighten them.
"Why?"
One of the Cardinals asked back.
Overdier added spice.
"An Apostle of the Gray God hit their side. If you want responsibility, the fault is ours. I think I need to make ready at once to receive him."
The Holy Knight Commander would leave his seat. It was a straining situation. And Legion had no leader to put forth.
Someone would have to step up and receive him.
Who was suited?
They lighted on the man named Noah whom Overdier had recommended. The Holy Knight Order had sworn it would do nothing without his leave; Nauwil's king, named among the continent's strongest, had personally stepped up as patron; and the Ragged Saint—whose name outshone that of any saint or holy woman in Legion—took his side.
What was more, he was the Mad Knight Captain's close friend.
Even without the Mad Knight Order's advance, Noah had been the man who would have ended up seated as Legion's Pontiff.
"Give it to me. That seat."
The man called Noah, who had been standing still until now, showed will for the first time.
Thus the Pontiff of Legion was decided.
Right about then, Enkrid—meeting demihumans and monsters—was happily talking sword with the Mad Knight Order.